Finally Ours (Harborview #2)

19. Angela

19

ANGELA

When Carter gets back to the apartment two hours later, I’m up from my unsuccessful nap and watching TV. I tried looking for a charter company that was open, but the closest one I found was operating out of Massachusetts, and after I called ten places just to check and got nowhere, I gave up.

“Did you sleep well?” Carter asks, as he takes his coat off and sets his things down on the kitchen counter. He pours water into the electric kettle and starts to boil it, and sets out two mugs for tea. He goes to hang his coat over the back of the door.

It feels achingly domestic—us in this apartment, me on the bed, him in the kitchen, our things spread out across the room, claiming it for our own already, even for just a short while.

The wanting hits me like a train barreling down the tracks.

I want this. I want it so badly I can barely breathe through the feeling. Us, together. Him, coming home after a long day, asking me how my day was, how I am, how was work. It’s so mundane. But it’s exactly what I used to imagine could be between us. Back then, I imagined a few years of college where we’d be long distance, and then graduation, and finally, the home we’d make together. Our first apartment was going to be a one bed in Portland by the docks.

I never imagined it would actually be like this: a vacation rental we’re only staying in because we got stranded on an island together. This situation is the only reason we’re even talking to one another again. Perhaps it’s the only reason he’s even trying to get me to forgive him.

But what about the kiss? How does that fit into whatever plan he has? Does he think I’ll forgive him if he—if he seduces me?

Seduce—Christ. My thoughts make me sound like an eighty-five-year-old grandma.

“Angel?” he asks.

I turn to look at him and see that the water has already boiled while I’ve been lost in thought.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” I say, hating the tone of my own voice. Scared. Unsure.

“Why do you think that is?” His voice is gentle. Kind.

It makes me want to cry.

“Sometimes there’s no reason,” I say. “I just can’t sleep. But normally it happens because I’m processing everything that happened during the day. And I guess we’ve had, um, a lot going on. What with being stranded.”

I don’t mention that the real reason my thoughts have been occupied is him. I can’t sleep because I keep replaying the moment earlier today when he kissed me. When he tipped my chin upwards with his hands, and laid his lips on mine. When he made it clear to me that he’s not dating anyone else.

I’m not too stupid to understand what that, at least, means. He wants me. Again. I just can’t figure out why—to what end.

“We’ve had a rough time,” he says. “But I hope you manage to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll try doing some meditation or something,” I say, giving him a smile that I hope seems reassuring.

He sets the tea down next to me on the nightstand and as he does it, the cotton of his t-shirt brushes against my arm and I catch a whiff of his comforting scent. Desire pools in my stomach and I can’t help but think of one of the main ways I get myself to fall asleep: getting myself off.

“Should we watch a movie?” he asks.

And then he settles himself on the bed next to me. He’s not that close because it’s enormous, but he has his legs spread slightly, and his foot knocks into mine.

“Sure,” I say. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Something lighthearted?”

I notice that his brows are pressing inwards slightly, as if something is upsetting him. And his mouth, normally curved into an easy half smile, is a flat line across his face.

“Are you upset?” I venture, needing to know if I’ve done something to hurt him.

“No, not upset,” he says.

“You can tell me. Whatever it is. I won’t judge.” I stare at the TV, where the reality program I’ve muted plays on. Maybe if I don’t look at him he’ll feel more comfortable talking about it. I never like talking to people about my feelings when I have to make eye contact with them—maybe he’s the same.

After a beat or two of silence, he says, “It’s my parents. I called my mom earlier.”

I try to picture Carter’s mom in my head and come up with nothing. Despite living in our tiny town for years, I don’t think I’ve ever met her. I don’t say anything, and just let him fill in the silence if he wants to.

“There’s nothing wrong with my parents. With the way they treat me,” he says. “I really mean that.”

“Okay.” I can tell he’s serious—he doesn’t want me to judge them, or him, for whatever he’s about to say.

“They’ve supported me so well throughout my PhD and in the years before. I had all these opportunities because they made sure I went to science camp and had SAT tutors. They never discouraged my love for science and nature and always let me explore it.” He doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. “But they also don’t really know me, at all.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath. “It’s like this,” he says. “By the time I was eight, and they had my sister, it was pretty clear I could take care of myself. Every day I got myself up on time for school and did well in all my classes. When I got home, I did my homework immediately, and I always made honor roll. On the weekends, I played with friends or spent time outside, and I never really asked them for anything. We didn’t have many fights. I didn’t throw temper tantrums. I was an easy kid to raise.”

“So what? Being easy means they never got to know you?”

“It means that they never had to try very hard. They never had to ask me how I was feeling because I was always feeling great. They never asked me how school was because I was always doing well. And they just talk about themselves, and my sister, anyways. I decided I didn’t want to be like that, talking about myself all the time.”

My heart sinks, as I imagine a ten-year-old Carter coming home with a hundred on a test and a gold star, with no one to show it to, just to hear his parents talk about his sister. No wonder he’s not open about his feelings.

“They didn’t even ask me about college applications. They just gave me the credit card to pay all the application fees and my mom told me to tell them when I got accepted. They didn’t even know that I applied to Harvard and got rejected.”

“You’re too good for Harvard anyway, Steel,” I say.

“Damn straight.”

I look over at him, finally, and see that the expression on his face is one of genuine happiness. I look away just as quickly, both because I don’t want him to feel like I’m staring at him while he opens up and because I’m wary of what it means—that talking to me has lightened his mood.

“What happened when you talked to your mom earlier?” I ask.

“I told her we were stranded here, and she didn’t care. At all. It’s not like we’re really stuck or anything, but?—

“We could have died in that storm,” I say quietly. “If you hadn’t known where that cabin was, we could have died. Maybe not immediately, and maybe we would have survived. But we would have been cold, and we could have slipped on the ice and fallen and…” I trail off, unwilling to imagine all of the potential horrors any further. “You really saved us, Carter.”

“Thank you.” He sounds solemn, almost earnest, and when I sneak another glance at him, I decide this is my favorite version of Carter: his deep set eyes shadowed in thought, his mouth a firm, determined line across his face. He’s unshakable.

“And your mom should care more. About the fact that we’re okay,” I say, because really, it’s not that she doesn’t care that we’re stranded, it’s that she wasn’t relieved to hear from him after three days. It’s that she wasn’t worried when she saw the storm on the news.

“She doesn’t even know what my research is about,” he says. “All that money they poured into my education, and they don’t even really care about it. They’d be just as content if I never went to college, as long as I was happy enough with my life not to bother them with it.”

“That’s not true,” I say fiercely.

“It is, though,” he says, and turns his head towards me. “You know I’m right.”

I meet his eyes and see all his emotional intelligence and shrewdness shining in them. He’s rarely wrong about how anyone feels, and I don’t want to condescend and tell him that he’s somehow mistaken about his own parents.

“Maybe you are right,” I say instead. “But does it have to be that way forever?”

“No,” he sighs. “I guess not.”

“You’re not,” I start to say, then pause. “You’re not an easy person to get to know, are you? Not in a deep way, I mean.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares straight past me at the muted television program playing.

“Oh. Carter, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I meant that you keep…” I trail off and flounder a bit. “I meant that you keep the most important pieces of yourself hidden except to those who choose to look.”

“Thanks for saying that, Angel. But you’re right,” he says. “I am difficult to get to know. And part of that is because I haven’t had much practice letting people in, and talking about myself feels strange. But part of it is because I like control. I like knowing exactly how I feel about something and not needing to share it with anyone.”

“That makes sense,” I say, trying to hide that I’m gobbling up every word he says.

Because this is the most Carter has ever shared with me about himself—about why he is the way that he is. And maybe demystifying the man ought to make me less fixated on him, but it doesn’t. I’m only more intrigued.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“You’re not easy to get to know either.”

I snort. “Yes I am. Ask any of my friends.”

“Okay, yes, Cat knows you. But how long did that take?”

“A few years,” I admit. “But I don’t think she ever really noticed, or cared. She’s relentless in her optimism.”

“Maybe you’re easier to get to know than I am,” he continues. “But you are private.”

I feel my face start to burn. Damn it.

“What is it?” he asks, and reaches out and tips my chin upwards, just like he did earlier. For a moment, I expect him to kiss me again. But he just looks directly at me, his hazel eyes boring into mine.

“Figure it out,” I volley back, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

His eyes scan me, as if he actually is cataloging me, noting down every little detail.

After a moment he says, “You’re shy .”

I grimace. “I prefer reserved.”

“You’re shy, but instead of awkwardness, it manifests as you not wanting anything to do with anyone.”

“Hey!” I flick him lightly on the nose. “You make me sound like a bitch.”

“Angel, you’re too good to give most people the time of day anyways. I wasn’t judging.”

“I can be warm,” I protest.

“I know, Angela. I know.” His eyes twinkle as he says this, and all I can think about is that kiss. That kiss that shouldn’t have happened — and the way I practically moaned into his damn mouth.

“Fine. I was shy when I was growing up, I’ll give you that. But it was never about being afraid of doing things.”

“You’ve never been afraid of anything,” he says.

I bite back a grimace. Because if there’s one thing I am terrified of, it’s him. It’s being abandoned again—by men, by love, but mostly, by him. And for this entire trip I’ve felt like that’s what I’m hurtling towards—and I have no way of stopping it from happening, because we’ll eventually be back in Harborview, no matter what else happens.

“Everyone is afraid of something,” I say quietly. “But for me, I was shy as a kid because I don’t like being the center of attention. I’m happy to speak my mind when asked, and I think I can be bold. But birthday parties? Kill me. Music recitals? I’d rather die. It’s why I like being a nurse so much.”

“Because as a nurse, you’re always part of a team?”

“Exactly. How’d you know?”

And now it’s his turn to blush, and Carter Steel blushing is a sight to see. He looks adorable, cheeks red, eyes slightly widened, as if he can’t believe it’s really happening.

“Just something I remember you telling me one time,” he mumbles. “Years ago.”

“You big softie,” I joke, but really, I’m touched.

I don’t even remember telling him that, but I must have, because being part of a team is always what I say when I’m asked why I like being a nurse.

Carter Steel actually listens to me. And he remembers.

What the hell does that mean for me?

Carter and I end up watching two Disney princess movies back to back. We heat up our leftovers from earlier, and make the entire apartment smell like clam chowder, fries, and crab cakes. We eat on the bed like monsters and despite the huge meal we had earlier, still manage to finish everything.

During the second movie, someone knocks on the apartment door. Assuming it’s Margery, I hurriedly clear the food up so she doesn’t think we’re destroying her apartment. Carter busies himself doing the dishes.

I answer the door, and Margery is standing there with a bright smile on her face.

“How are you two doing?” she asks.

“Great! The food at Shaky Jane’s was so good,” I say. “Thank you again for letting us stay here.”

“No thanks needed,” she says. “I came up to let you know that Archie’s downstairs. Mitch called him and let him know two hikers were looking for a lift.”

“Oh! Thank you. We’ll go down and talk to him,” I say.

“Thanks Margery!” Carter calls from the kitchen.

I follow Margery out the door, and Carter follows close behind. When we get to the store, Mitch is standing at the counter tallying the day’s receipts, and outside the sun is starting to go down.

“Archie is outside,” Mitch says without looking up.

Outside, it’s chilly, and I shiver a bit, wishing I’d taken the extra sweater Margery left me. Carter pulls me in to his side, and loops one arm around me. He feels so warm that I don’t even bother protesting. The alarm bells that normally start ringing in my head when he gets close remain silent.

Archie is sitting on a bench outside the store, smoking what looks to be a hand rolled cigarette. He’s dressed in the familiar garb of a workman’s coat and boots that I’ve seen plenty of fishermen in Harborview don, and his face is covered in white and gray stubble. It’s tough to determine how old he actually is. His skin is worn from the sun and sea, but as his eyes are sharp and bright.

“I hear you need a lift back to the mainland?” he says, without looking directly at us.

“To Mount Desert,” Carter responds.

Archie grunts.

“We’d love to get back tomorrow,” I say.

“And we’re happy to pay,” Carter adds.

Archie makes a sound that’s somewhere in between a dry cough and a laugh. “I’m not a taxi service. I’ll take you when I can take you.”

“We just don’t want to take advantage,” I explain. “And we’ll be really grateful for any help you can give us.” I give Archie a smile, and hope he actually notices it. Because damn it, I really need to get back to work. I’m not sure how much longer I can appease my boss before he starts to think something is up.

“I can probably take you tomorrow,” he says. “But not until at least 3 p.m. or so. I’m stayin’ local tomorrow but I gotta check some pots I have by the cliffs in the north. And then I have some deliveries to make.” He jerks his head towards Shaky Jane’s. I guess Archie supplies the local restaurants. Makes sense.

Carter’s face lights up at something Archie has said. “That’s near the puffin colonies.”

“It sure is,” Archie says. “They’re starting to come in for the season. Saw a few of them yesterday when I was out.”

“Oh yeah? How many?”

“Probably only ten pairs or so. But they’ll be getting started on refurbishing their burrows.”

“I tried to do some bird watching from the shore yesterday,” Carter says. “But I only spotted a few. I’d love to get back to the northern part of the island to see them.”

Archie gives him a quizzical look.

“I’m a researcher,” Carter supplies. “I’ve been here the past two years tagging birds.”

“You know Hal?”

“Sure do.”

The next five or ten minutes are filled with Archie and Carter trading bird watching stories. Both of them have seen multiple species here over the years, and Archie has stories from sightings while fishing. He frequently sees the puffins returning to their burrows, beaks full of small fish. And Carter has plenty to say about the bird tagging process, which Archie listens to with rapt attention.

“You could come with me tomorrow,” Archie says, and my ears prick up. “You can come with me to check the traps. I could use the help. And then I can take you bird watching on the water afterwards.”

“That’d be great,” Carter says. “But I think we need to get back.”

His voice is easy when he says this, like he doesn’t care, but all I can think about is what he told me earlier, about how he doesn’t want to be the type of person who talks about himself. And maybe that extends to asking for things for himself as well. He knows I want to get back, so he’s deferring to how I feel, instead of saying what he actually wants to do. And I appreciate it—but I’m starting to understand that with Carter’s emotional intelligence comes a sense of selflessness. After all, how could it not? If you understand how other people feel, it’s natural to take that into account. And even though he comes off as distant and difficult to get to know—he’s actually grown up into someone who is considerate.

“Let’s go,” I say quietly. Because he needs someone to look after his feelings, too.

And maybe he doesn’t quite deserve me doing that for him, and maybe after this trip, I’ll never hear from him again. But I can’t help it—I want to see his face light up again. I want to see him happy, on the water, binoculars in hand, doing what he loves.

If after we’re done on Isle North and back on Harborview, he stops speaking to me again, well, I lived through it once and I can do it again. Back then it hurt more because I was in love with him. This time it’s bound to hurt less.

“Really?” Carter asks, turning away from Archie to give me an assessing look. “I’m surprised you’d want to go.”

“I do,” I say. “I haven’t…” I trail off as I flounder for an excuse. “I haven’t taken a vacation in a long time.”

Archie’s shrewd gaze bounces back and forth between us and I’m sure he’s becoming aware that we’re something other than a happy couple, or whatever Margery told him.

“Not that being stranded on an island with you counts,” I continue. “But I’m going to make the most of it while I can.”

“What about work? Your boss?” Carter asks, seeming genuinely concerned.

“Screw my boss,” I mutter.

“Great,” he says, and turns back to Archie with a smile on his face. “Archie, if your offer still stands, we’re going to take you up on it.”

“Be ready to go down at the docks at seven.”

I grimace, and Archie must catch it because he just says, “You’re lucky I’m not making you leave at four or five, like I normally do. But like I said, I’m staying local tomorrow so no need to be out early.”

I may have just signed my death sentence. Because I know there is no way I’m sleeping tonight—not after that kiss, and not after the way Carter opened up to me earlier.

I remind myself that I’ve done much more difficult things than go bird watching on a few hours of sleep. Everything will be fine.